(Set after Anomalous Materials)
Bang bang bang.
Batts awakens to destruction. His room appears to have done battle with a pack of drunken clawfiends. If so - it has evidently lost.
Bang bang bang.
“Mr Marbeq? Mr Marbeq? We've had reports of screaming. More so than the usual.”
Batts rubs his eyes and casts about for anything overtly incriminating. A heavily chewed desk. The smell of seared meat. The remains of some familiar blood-red text linger upon the walls, smudged out of all proportion. Squinting, he can just about parse: “I MILLED MY OWN LAGER”. Lager? But you don't even mill lager!
“Mr Marbeq! Mr Marbeq! I must insist that you open this door at once.”
Shaking himself out of his stupor, Batts smacks his lips. Wood - fruit - fabric - and the unmistakably metallic tang of mana.
He remembers. And then - he opens the door.
“Bursar…dreadfully, terribly sorry for the unnecessary alarum…you see…I was performing a most exciting new ritual and, ah, well. It didn't work out exactly as my extensive predictions would have pre-indicated.” He gestures at the room. “As you can see.”
The Bursar sighs. This was hardly an unusual event, especially where Marbeq was concerned. He raises a finger - makes as if to say something - and then thinks better of it. What was the point in reprimanding the mage? It was like reprimanding a tidal wave. And, besides: Batts cooked for free, and the People's College needed the Riel.
“Very well, Mr Marbeq. You may go about your business.”
“Thank you for your understanding, Bursar. If I may, let me express my sincere - hryuetgfh.”
Batts' tongue appears to have grown several inches. And turned yellow.
“Is that…a scarf?”
“Do excuse me. Hairball.”